Love Is
by Nagia
Summary: Eight lessons about what love is.


**Love Is  
**

* * *

i;

When you're three minutes old, all soft, red, bawling baby flesh and slate blue eyes, falling in love is automatic. Love is the heartbeat you have known from the days of amniotic sea-changes, love is the warmth of your mother's arms and the gray of her eyes, eyes that are just barely in focus. It is her finger trapped in your hand.

When you are three minutes old, you love your mother because it is your nature.

* * *

ii;

When you're three days old, still soft, no longer red with your mother's blood, falling in love is easy. How can you not love the beard to tangle your tiny fingers in, the quick dark grin and the face that softens? Love is wrapping your father around your finger simply by closing your hand over his and holding tightly, love is the soft coo that passes from his lips.

When you are three days old, you love your father because he loves you.

* * *

iii;

When you're three years old, toddler-chubby and clumsy footed, falling in love is just like falling down in the dust after you took your first step. Not really knowing what else to do, you scoop up a handful of dirt and stuff it in your mouth. Your teeth are still hurting you a little and the chewing makes it feel better. And of course your parents laugh.

When you are three years old, you love your country because it eases your pain.

* * *

iv;

When you're six years old, all awkward ankles and skinned palms, falling in love is just like watching the stars. Love is shiny and round and fits in your palm. Love is the world encased in your window and the warmth of your father's lap and the materia he is slowly teaching you to not only use but understand. Love is beautiful and sticky and sweet.

When you are six years old, you love materia because your father loves it.

* * *

v;

When you're thirteen years old, all knobby knees and the beginnings of breasts, falling in love is hard and loud and angry. You are red with blood again, but this time the blood is yours. Your shoes are red with the clay of the road for the very first time and you love that sensation, love the feeling of the road under your feet. Love the pulse-pounding of your heartbeat and the shortness of breath that comes of running five miles.

When you are thirteen years old, you love being a runaway because your father doesn't love you anymore.

* * *

vi;

When you're sixteen year old, all thin sharp bones and your father's quick dark smile, falling in love is messy and painful and wet. Your heart is red as his eyes, a lump in your chest, beating so quickly every time he looks at you. You're lying to him, you're lying to them all, you hate it and you love it and you love them all but most especially him. He's an outsider just like you and your light little body is heavy with that knowledge. Who you are and who you were and who you wish you could be are weights on your slim shoulders, made heavier because you know what they want you to be, made lighter because he doesn't really expect anything.

When you are sixteen years old, you love Vincent Valentine because he is just like you, but different.

* * *

vii;

When you're nineteen years old, all softened curves and dark laughing lashes, falling in love is sudden and jerky and confusing. It's unexpected because your heart felt so full and now there's room for one more, for two more, for the whole wide world. Love is life and living and your heartbeat in your veins. Love is Shalua's smile and Reeve's little wisecracks, the way Shalua listens to what you say and the way Reeve expects things. For the first time, love is a community.

When you are nineteen years old, you love the World Regenesis Organization because you can finally fix things.

* * *

viii;

When you are twenty-one years old, long legs that men love and sharp shining wit that men hate, falling in love is anger and laughter and shaking him until he listens, except he never listens and you never expect him to. Vincent Valentine is who he is and you are who you are and you're old enough to accept it but you're alive enough to wish for something else. You want to reach out and touch the boy he used to be. Instead you touch your hands to the face of the man he is and you're proud of him.

When you are twenty-one years old, you love Vincent Valentine in a whole new way because you have both changed.

* * *

END


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